Symphony in a Minor Key

Introduction

As he emerged from the alley the front of the building on his right exploded. Knocked down by the blast, Robbins staggered back to his feet, unable to comprehend what he saw.

The city was deserted and in ruins. Most of the nearby buildings were at least partly destroyed. A few were on fire, spewing acrid black smoke into the cold air. The wide street he stood on was pockmarked with craters and littered with broken wood, glass, and the tom bodies of dead animals. In the distance he heard unintelligible cries and screams, sharp firecracker-like snaps, and whistling sounds like descending skyrockets followed by thunderous explosions.

Suddenly a horse-drawn wagon whipped around the nearby street comer and bore down on him. Both the driver and the gray-faced woman at his side looked terrified as he lashed the horses to greater speed. The wagon grazed Robbins’s arm as he jumped aside just in time.

Before he could catch his breath, a portly red-faced man puffed around the same corner and sprinted toward him. As he ran past, Robbins grabbed the stranger’s arm and shouted at him in German, “What is happening?”

The fat man’s eyes bulged. “Let go of me, you fool!” he screamed. “They’re right behind me, they’ll kill us all!”

Before he could ask who “they” were the man broke free and resumed his headlong flight. As Robbins started after him an arcing shriek tore through the air. Suddenly the part of the street just in front of the fleeing man exploded, flinging him backwards high into the air, arms flailing wildly, until he landed on his head with a sickening thud.

Robbins ran to him. The man lay on his back, bloodied mouth gaping wide, unmoving eyes staring up at the sky. Dead.

Then he heard more hoofbeats coming from the other end of the cobblestoned street. Recalling the dead man’s last words, he looked around for a place to hide. The closest shelter was the crater just blasted in front of him in the middle of the street. It made a shallow foxhole, deep enough to let him duck his head below street level by lying on his stomach. Ignoring the mud staining his clothes, he peeked over the edge of the crater.

Four horsemen turned the same street comer from which the wagon and the dead man had just come. They wore identical tall black woolen hats, brown shirts open at the neck, wide red sashes around their waists, and dark pants stuffed into high military boots. A long saber hung from each one’s side. Their bearded faces too seemed identical, with coarse, menacing features.

Seemingly oblivious to his hiding place or the distant thunder of cannons, they trotted their horses down the street at a leisurely pace, directly toward him. Every few meters they would stop momentarily and peer at the surrounding buildings, as if looking for someone.

Quickly Robbins ducked his head back down, heart pounding. The alley from which he’d emerged—the one containing the portal back home—was too far away. If he tried running to it, they would see him, and could cut him down with their sabers long before he reached safety.

And if he did nothing, in a few minutes they would, literally, be right on top of him.

The melody of the Russian dance from Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker ballet flashed through his mind. He was about to be killed by—Cossacks?

Confused, desperate, Robbins closed his eyes. Like the bass part of some diabolical passacaglia, a single thought repeated itself in his mind.

What in God’s name is going on?